We'd Never Know What's Wrong Without The Pain
by accioamber
Summary: House as a 14 yr. old. Contains minor language. OneShot. No pairings. Greg is depressed over his friend's suicide. What will happen? Promise, I'm not making fun of depression...Houses parents are in this one.


Disclaimer: Don't own House or any of the characters, and this is my own story from my own mind…any similarities are coincidental. All I own is Ryan and Dr. Palmer. Ok, thanks.

A/N: OneShot. I loooove OneShots. Just so you know, this is a WEIRD topic, and I won't be playing around with it again unless I get some reviews that I did a good job. I'm not sure I like it. R&R is always appreciated! House is 14 in this Fic. My breaks are house house house.

House House House House House

"Greg? Greg. Are you ok?"

Gregory House was perched on the end of his seat, staring out the window and ignoring the psychiatrist, as he usually did. Dr. Palmer was an annoying man, and Greg hated him with a passion. Why couldn't Mom have chosen someone else? Or better yet, just chosen no one. Greg wasn't crazy. He didn't need a psychiatrist. So Ryan had gone off the deep end and blown his head off. So what? How did that effect Greg?

"Okay, Greg. I'm afraid we've run out of time again. I think we've made real progress today."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Dude, I love how you pretend that my sitting here in silence is "helping" me. You act like I just broke down sobbing and confessed to being deeply hurt by the fact that my best friend is dead and that I'm depressed beyond belief. Get a life. Did you seriously WANT to listen to whining, sniveling little brats all day long when you were 14?"

Dr. Palmer kept a cool smile on his face and said, "Greg, could you call your mother in here, please? There's something I'd like to speak with her about."

Greg got off the chair, rolled his eyes and walked into the hallway. The carpet was a deep maroon color, like the blood from Ryan's head when Greg had found him at…whoa. Better not think about that. He called his Mom. "Mom? Nutso in here would like a word with you."

"Gregory, please. Don't say things like that." Amy House lovingly smoothed his dark hair and walked into Dr. Palmer's office, shutting the door firmly behind her. Greg leaned against the door, ignoring the dirty looks he was getting from Dr. P's secretary. However, the door was designed to mask loud crying and screaming, so he couldn't pick up much.

All he heard were the words, "depressed", "unwilling to cooperate", and "medication". Was he going to have to go on medicine? That was dumb. Stupid.

He didn't need medicine. He wasn't upset about Ryan's death. Ryan had been a stupid friend anyway, he never knew what he was talking about. He'd provided Greg with a few laughs way back when, but that was it.

10 minutes later, Amy came out of the office, wiping away tears that were snaking down her face. "Ready to go, sweetheart?" she asked, stuffing what looked like a scrip into her purse.

"Yeah, I guess." As soon as they were out in the parking lot, Greg said, "Mom, what did Dr. Palmer say?"

"Oh, Greg… He said you were unwilling to cooperate, but after he's observed you and talked to you a little, he's decided you're depressed." Greg's jaw dropped. "Now, honey, he's given me a prescription for some medication that's going to make you feel better, and with a continuing of your therapy, he said, you'll start getting better."

"I'm NOT DEPRESSED! God, I could CARE LESS about Ryan!"

"Greg, honey, it's nothing to be ashamed of! It's actually perfectly healthy. Ryan was your best friend, and it's only normal to be depressed!"

"But I'm not, Mom! I'm not depressed!"

"We'll talk about this with your father, later, Greg." She gave him a warning glance and opened the car door.

House house house house house

That night, in their bedroom, Greg listened to his parents discussing the pills.

"I don't know, Amy. He seems perfectly normal now." His father, John's, low grumble.

"But the psychiatrist doesn't think so, and he's the professional." His mothers soft voice.

"He damn well BETTER be the professional, after all we're paying for him…"

"John…"

"OK, Amy, I know. I think you're right, I guess. Greg will benefit from this."

"OK, I'll phone in the prescription tomorrow."

House House House House House

"NO! No, it's NOT happening! I'm not taking any CRAZY pills! Because I'm not crazy!" Greg yelled at the top of his voice.

"Sweetheart, "Amy soothed him, "You're not crazy. But these will help you feel better. About Ryan, and the situation you've been put in."

"You're taking those pills, Gregory. Whether you like it or not." This soft idea wasn't going to work for John. His son needed to be put in his place.

"I hate you! I hate both of you." Greg ran upstairs and slammed his door.

House House House House House

He came face to face with the orange prescription bottle over his plate of French Toast the next morning.

"Take two of those with your orange juice, honey." Amy said, flipping over another slice of French Toast on the griddle.

John eyed his son over the top of his newspaper. "Take two of those, Greg. We're not messing around anymore. This is serious. Do it now, please." John said in a death voice.

Amy turned around in time to see Greg down two of the pills.

"Oh, good job, sweetheart! I'm so proud of you. I know that wasn't easy."

"Oh, give it a rest, damn it. He swallowed two pills. He didn't run the triathalon. Give me a break." John went back to reading his paper.

House House House House House

"Feeling any better, Greg?" It was Dr. Palmer this time, asking him how he was feeling. Only the four hundredth person that day to ask him.

"I'm fine. Never been better."

It was then, sitting there, that he realized his best friend was dead. He'd found Ryan, laying there on his white, now red, carpet at home. And he realized that he missed him, as he sat there, tears streaking down his face in his psychiatrist's office.

THE END.

A/N: I'm not making fun of depression, or saying that anti depression meds are miracle workers. This just popped into my head so I wrote it. So please don't flame me. thanks!


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